


Watch Over Him

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bit of Drama, M/M, Mycroft drunk, Romance, bit of humor, the summary is bad but story is good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: Mycroft detested the result of being completely drunk and lacking memory...but sometimes it can lead to a great surprise.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I suck at summaries. BADLY.  
> 2) I know, I'm still working on Bonds, but between a nasty writer's block and having to put down one my dogs a few weeks ago, I haven't really written much until now. I'm STILL working on it as well as another Merthur one-shot that is apparently a one-shot of doom with how long it is.  
> 3) I'm sorry I haven't updated anything in awhile, but thanks to those for sticking with me and I hope to get a chapter of Bonds up soon.

The house that Mycroft lived in was highly imposing and Greg hesitated before approaching it. He knew that he’d agreed to look after him for Sherlock, but he felt distinctly out of place there in his serviceable but old suit. For a few minutes he sat in his car and picked at the steering wheel before he’d gathered enough courage to go to the door.

Despite the young detective’s insistence that the doorbell would be useless, he touched the button first. It felt awkward just standing there, but he heard no response and tried again. Mycroft didn’t seem the type to just ignore the doorbell like that, so he went with his gut and pulled out a set of keys from his pocket that Sherlock had given him.

The house was dark and there wasn’t any sound of movement. Being mindful of his directions, Greg obediently used the code Sherlock had given him for the alarm system despite the fact that he had a feeling this was only going to make it worse for Mycroft. Yet the last thing he wanted was for the entire British government coming down on his head because the man had a timer he had to set every time the door opened or something. Who knew with this family? “Mycroft?” he called, but there was no answer.

Greg shifted, debating whether he should go any further, but Sherlock’s expression came to mind and he decided that no matter how angry the statesman got, he was going to make sure he was okay.

But he didn’t have to look very long as he turned into a room on his left that appeared to be a study and found Mycroft slumped in a chair, passed out with four wine bottles around him. He tilted one of them and heard the slightest sloshing inside, but it wasn’t very heavy. A glass had upended on the floor and would likely forever stain the rug underneath the little table it had once sat on.

The very idea that Mycroft felt the need to get blind, stinking drunk almost didn’t compute and he sighed. John had informed him of what had happened with the Holmes’ sister, and the truth was, that it didn’t really surprise him. With an intelligence great as theirs, it would be statistically astronomical that one of them wasn’t a psychopath. Having met their sister, Greg was convinced that there was no way that Sherlock could ever be considered one, even before he had met John.

With a sigh, he picked up the empty wine bottles and threw them in the trash before grabbing a few paper towels, attempting to dab up the wine on the carpet. It did little to help, but it made him feel a bit better.

“You really are terrified of her,” he muttered to the sleeping Mycroft. Who wouldn’t be? The things she had orchestrated, the people she had killed… With an intelligence on her level and her predilection for games that cost others their lives, of course he would be afraid, particularly if she was focusing her ire on Sherlock for some reason.

He reached out and shook Mycroft’s shoulder. He didn’t want to disturb the man, but he was going to get a crick in his neck, among other things, if he fell asleep slumped in the chair. “Mycroft. Mycroft, wake up for me.”

The eyes that opened with a grunt were a tad bloodshot, and he could tell that he was still heavily intoxicated, but a little of the worse of it had passed a bit in his sleep. “Gregory.”

Gregory? Since when did Mycroft call him anything other than ‘detective inspector’? “That’s me,” he told the drunk man and tugged the surprised man to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He blamed the alcohol that the normally insanely smart man didn’t even once ask him what he was doing there. Instead, he mumbled, “Will you stay with me?”

As he got them started on the stairs, Mycroft leaning on his shoulder, he said absently, “Yeah, sure.” He was pretty sure Mycroft was going to pass out instantly when his head hit the pillow, so staying until he fell asleep was hardly an imposition.

“Good.”

Greg listened to the directions to Mycroft’s room and he all but dropped him on the bed, but before he could so much as straighten up, surprisingly strong hands had grabbed him and tugged him down with him. “M-Mycroft?” he stuttered as the tall man rolled on top of him and began kissing at his neck.

“You said you’d stay with me.”

Oh shit. “I thought you meant...” He trailed off with a faint gasp as Mycroft’s gentle hands were releasing the buttons on his shirt. He knew he could fight this. He could make Mycroft stop...but the truth was, he didn’t really want to. He had sworn to do whatever Mycroft wanted to do and if he needed physical human comfort after what had happened, then so be it.

And if Greg needed him for an entirely different reason, no one needed to know about that.

~*~

Mycroft moaned in pain as his head felt like it was going to split itself open and he barely managed to pry his eyelids apart. The room was still dark, but the clock on the bedside table said it was a good ten in the morning. His curtains had been drawn in tight, something he didn’t recall doing. He shifted as he mentally fumbled, trying to remember what had happened the night before. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in the chair in the study.

As he sat up, he registered that he was very, very naked and he felt what little color he had drain from his face. His clothes were strewn over the bed and the floor, but there was no sign of who he had slept with. Mycroft could hardly put stock into the idea that he managed to make it up to his bedroom by himself _and_ have the fine control to undress himself when he’d been completely sloshed.

Not to mention, he noted as he grabbed a pillow, there was a cologne that smelled so terribly familiar to him and yet he couldn’t place it. Mycroft couldn’t tell if it was because of his hangover, or something else, but the connection to that particular scent wasn’t coming to him. There was no doubt, though, that it was a man’s. Not only because women’s perfume tended to have a much different smell, but because he didn’t have the slightest inclination to the female persuasion.

None of this changed the fact that he _had_ to find out who he’d slept with. Despite wanting to just curl up in a ball of misery, he stumbled from his bed and spared time only to pull on a pair of soft cotton pajama bottoms before he trudged wearily to his computer where he had the survelliance and alarm system tied into. _This_ would show him who it was.

Only it didn’t. He cursed Sherlock up and down for breaking the outside camera he hadn’t had an opportunity to fix and his security had been disabled not only with the correct code of numbers, but the exact ones to turn _everything_ off.

He slumped back in his chair and groaned. So he had slept with someone that he had no idea who they were and the thought of some unknown prowling around his house, particularly after the last damn scare, made him shiver. He made a mental note to get checked for STDs. Just in case.

~*~

It was about two weeks later that Mycroft found out who his mystery partner was.

The chime of a text message broke the quiet of his office and he sighed at seeing a familiar number. He and Sherlock hadn’t really spoken much since everything had happened with Euros. At the very least, he hadn’t thought that there was real animosity for him from his little brother for what he had done. Honestly, who could blame him for letting Sherlock believe that redbeard was a dog, rather than tell him the truth that his own sister had killed his best friend and had made drawings depicting his own gravestone?

‘Come to Baker’s St. Now. -SH.’

He really didn’t want to. Things would be terribly awkward and for once he didn’t want to walk into a room and feel everyone’s disdain or glares. It was nice, to be away from people that were not even close to his level of intelligence and yet they they reacted with disgust to him anyway.

But it was Sherlock, so of course he would go. As usual.

When he arrived, he sent the car away with a flick of his hand. The sounds of bedlam above him told him he would likely be walking into a mess. The landlady was giggling as she came down the stairs, paying him no mind, and he could hear the distinctive sound of John’s daughter above him. He hoped this was going to be a short visit, but he didn’t really expect it to be so.

It was like controlled chaos, he noted, as he stood in the open doorway and looked at the mess. He merely waited, but it didn’t take long for Sherlock to notice him.

“About time!”

His eyebrow rose. “You texted me twenty minutes ago.”

“You could have gotten here in ten.”

“I know,” he said.

John came into the room then with the baby that was making burbbling noises. “There you are, Mycroft. I must say I’m surprised.”

“About what?” he asked, watching with trepidation as the doctor continued to approach him.

“That you agreed to babysit. You’re a real life-saver, since neither Mrs. Hudson or Molly was available,” John said with a pleased expression, all but forcing the baby into his arms. He had no choice but to take her, because it was either that, or he dropped her and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s gun for that.

Sherlock was _very_ partial to Rosie.

“ _What_?”

John blinked even as Sherlock was shoving the man into his coat. “You’re here, so I thought you agreed. Sherlock texted you.”

“He texted me to _come_ , not that I--”

“Very important case, Mycroft, no time for your arguing. You know where everything is. Come on, John!”

As he stood there, gaping, John hesitated once, even twice, before Sherlock’s yell got him moving. “Call if you need anything, Mycroft!”

He needed a _gun_!

Mycroft groaned in frustration as he shifted his arms and the baby made more noises again. Well...what did he do now? It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to ‘babysitting’, as it were, as he had looked after Sherlock and even Euros to a lesser extent, when they’d been children, but that had been a long time ago and it had been in very different circumstances. The only good thing about the situation was that Sherlock must still trust him, if he was willing to leave Rosie alone with him.

Sounds came from Rosie then that were suspiciously whine-like and he worried she was about to cry. Her face screwed up like she might and he reached for the nearest toy. It made a squeaking noise and her attention was caught momentarily. She watched it and he tilted it back and forth in a dancing motion in the air and she grinned a little before that expression came back.

Despite his fears, he didn’t smell anything untoward and he could only assume that meant she didn’t need to be changed. Which left a few causes and he settled on she was probably hungry. It took a bit of finagling, but he managed to slip off his expensive jacket and toss it on John’s chair before taking her to the kitchen that had been, at one point, a drug lab for his brother. With the doctor’s influence back again, it had been returned to it’s normal state.

“Do you still use a bottle?” he wondered, shifting her weight up a little in a pose he mimicked from his mother carrying Sherlock. Mycroft risked opening the fridge and closed it again just as quickly. Eyes floating in a jar. Clearly John hadn’t gone to the fridge in the last hour and seen Sherlock’s ridiculous addition to their food supply.

Rosie whined again and he looked in the other side for milk, but there was none to be had. “Well. Problematic,” he told her and she looked up at him with eyes that looked just like Mary’s.

John had said to call if he needed anything, so he did just that, but it went straight to voicemail. Still, this was his daughter, and John had become almost paranoid in taking care of her lately, so he would likely check it. “John, there is no milk in that abhorrent refrigerator and Sherlock has left floating eyes in a jar in there again. Bring some.”

It wasn’t that he couldn’t just walk down the street, but that he’d have to leave Rosie and he couldn’t do that. Neither could he bring the child with him in case his enemies were watching him and thought she was his. Despite the horrendous inconvenience of babysitting, she was as good as Sherlock’s own child at this point. No matter what happened in the bedroom, or lack thereof, he knew that John and Sherlock would be forever together. They would spend all their time together, raise Rosie together, and be a family. If neither Sherlock or John recognized their feelings as romantic was beyond the point.

To distract the baby from the lack of food, he picked up another toy that jingled with bells and slowly walked around the small room with her. It kept her occupied at least, rather than just sitting there, and he couldn’t help a small smile. She hadn’t turned out to be as annoying as he thought she’d be.

So focused on her, Mycroft didn’t notice until he’d made his ninth pass and faced the door that he wasn’t alone. His smile vanished in surprise and he blinked. “Detective inspector?”

The apparently equally stunned man lifted the bag in his hand. “I’m your backup.”

“Backup?”

The rugged man gave him a rueful smile that would always shake his knees a little. “John sent me here with milk and I guess he was concerned you might need help. I don’t know, seems like you’re really good at this. You have kids of your own?”

“No. I lack the required sexual interest in women for that.” Mycroft shifted a bit in embarrassment. “I used to babysit Sherlock.”

“Don’t have to be straight to have kids,” the detective told him and headed into the kitchen. “I always wanted a kid, but Jackie was never interested.”

As the man passed by him, the connection snapped in place in his mind and his heart thumped as Mycroft realized who he’d slept with two weeks ago. The cologne was a popular one, it could have been others, but it was statistically unlikely. Sherlock would have been able to divine the new code to his security system and given it to the detective.

But then why hadn’t he said anything? Had it been repugnant? Or worse still, had he forced him in some way? Mycroft still had no memory after having passed out from so much drinking, something he would forever regret doing as it had impaired the one thing about himself that he prized so much. He eyed the man in the kitchen who was looking at the bottle as if it were a foreign object, but he could detect nothing that indicated trauma of any kind. It was highly unlikely he had forced him; no matter what happened, he’d been drunk and Greg could have fought him off easily, he was sure.

So why hadn’t he brought it up? Some feeling of awkwardness? Maybe he didn’t want it to happen again? Mycroft definitely wasn’t opposed to spending more time with the detective inspector, perhaps experiencing what they’d done again now that he could remember it, but that didn’t mean that his once-partner did.

“Okay, here.”

He took the bottle, deliberately touching the man’s fingers and watched as they twitched. They’d definitely had sex. This was not a situation that Mycroft was going to ignore, but he had to be careful how he approached it. If Gregory was that opposed to it, if he pretended it hadn’t happened, then he would drop it, just like what happened with Sherlock.

As Rosie eagerly sucked from the bottle, he commented, “That cologne of yours. You wear it often?”

The detective inspector shifted, giving all the signs of being nervous despite his calm face, and said, “Yeah, I guess, now that I think about it. Why? Is it too strong?” He flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Can you smell me down the street?”

The attempt at humor did little to disguise how discomforted the man was and Mycroft eyed him. “No, not at all. It’s just that I smelled it quite recently...on my pillow case.” Greg flinched a little and didn’t say anything, staring at the wall or the floor or the window. “We had sex that night I was drunk, didn’t we?” Still no answer. Hmm, he was going to have to work up to it then. “Did Sherlock give you the codes to get in?”

He watched as the man shoved his hands in his pockets, but the material couldn’t hide that he was clenching his fists in nerves. At least he was acknowledging that it had happened, that was something! “Yeah. He wanted me to look in on you, make sure you were okay, and he told me how to get into your house.”

“I suspected so. After all, he _did_ disable my system just before that. That’s been fixed.” Though Sherlock would be able to figure it out, eventually, it might give even him a bit of pause first if he wanted to do that again. “...Was it terrible?” he asked when Greg still didn’t say anything.

That, at least, got their eyes to meet and he was stunned to see a blush appear on that slightly grizzled face. “No!”

“Then why are--”

“Because it’s awkward to talk about,” the man told him, correctly interpreting his question and crossing his arms defensively. “Besides, I didn’t think you’d remember it.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Rose shifted, pushing the bottle away and he walked around with her again slowly, inadvertently circling the detective inspector. “I must say, it was highly disconcerting waking up and knowing I had sex, but not with who. Not knowing who had come into my house, whether it was one of my enemies or...”

“Or Euros.” Greg winced and looked apologetic, as if he had worried about that.

He couldn’t help wanting to know, even though the answer to the question was obvious. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“Like I said, I thought it would be awkward. You were drunk and taking off my clothes.”

“You weren’t. You could have stopped it.”

“I could have...but I didn’t want to.” Didn’t want to? Could that even be possible? Mycroft’s expression must have tipped him off, because Greg almost glared at him. “Why is that such a shock to you? I thought you were supposed to be smart. Couldn’t you tell how much I’ve been wanting you for years?”

He gently set the sleepy baby in her chair. “I couldn’t trust my own observations to be...objective.”

A slow smile began to cross Greg’s face as the implications of what he said sank in. “Because you wanted it too?” he guessed.

Mycroft reached out and tugged the man close, kissing him lightly. “ _Want_ , not past tense.”

It was as if he had given the man the one present he wanted above all else, the way his expression lifted. “How about when the idiots come back, we go to your place so I can get my cologne on your bed again?”

“I think that’s a capital idea, Gregory,” he told him and kissed him fiercely. He might just have to thank Sherlock later for this.

  


  



End file.
